If Heaven and angels exist in a timeless medium we call Forever ("Hey, nobody here but us angels!") ... Then ... UES what? ... There will be no end of me!

— Jerry Spinelli

If you believe it, it happens. If you don't, it doesn't. When you believe him, you put your own power in his hands.

— Jerry Spinelli

If you learn to hate one or two persons... you'll soon hate millions of people.

— Jerry Spinelli

If you start by hating one or two people, you won't be able to stop. Pretty soon you'll hate a hundred people.

— Jerry Spinelli

If you start by hating one or two people, you won't be able to stop. Pretty soon you'll hate a hundred people." "A zillion?" "Even a zillion. A little hatred goes a long, long way. It grows and grows. And it's hungry."" Like Cimabue?"" Even hungrier. You keep feeding it more and more people, and the more it gets, the more it wants. It's never satisfied. And pretty soon it squeezes all the love out of your heart"--I pointed to her heart; she looked down at her chest--"and all you'll have left is a hateful heart.

— Jerry Spinelli

I'm looking over a four-leaf clover that I overlooked before.

— Jerry Spinelli

It is like the panting of a thousand puppies.

— Jerry Spinelli

It's in the morning, for most of us. It's that time, those few seconds when we're coming out of sleep, but we're not really awake yet. For those few seconds we're something more primitive than what we are about to become. We have just slept the sleep of our most distant ancestors, and something of them and their world still clings to us. For those few moments we are unformed, uncivilized. We are not the people we know as ourselves, but creatures more in tune with a tree than a keyboard. We are untitled, unnamed, natural, suspended between was and will be, the tadpole before the frog, the worm before the butterfly. Furthermore, we are for a few brief moments, anything and everything we could be. And then...and then -- ah -- we open our eyes and the day is before us and ... we become ourselves.

— Jerry Spinelli

It was like the panting of a thousand puppies.

— Jerry Spinelli

It was the day of the worms. That first almost-warm, after-the-rainy-night day in April, when you bolt from your house to find yourself in a world of worms. They were as numerous here in the East End as they had been in the West. The sidewalks, the streets. The very places where they didn't belong. Forlorn, marooned on concrete and asphalt, no place to burrow, April's orphans.

— Jerry Spinelli